


Ash to Ashes

by bbcsherlockian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, TW: Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 06:58:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcsherlockian/pseuds/bbcsherlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and John Watson appear to be fated to always exist alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ash to Ashes

After I had ‘died’, I realised that things would never really be the same between John and I - they would be, infact, excruciatingly different - but before I discovered this, I knew we would change. Invariably.

Despite our regular checks of the flat, despite the constant threat of… others, John never once checked for surveillance when he was left on his own. As a matter of fact, he became increasingly reckless; no harm would come to him thanks to myself and Mycroft but, of course, he didn’t know that. This carelessness was, ultimately, useful. Cameras were installed in as many corners and undiscovered hiding places as possible and, while John no longer resided at 221B, his visits were frequent if irregular and the cameras recorded everything. I needed to commit none of his movements or monologues or facial expressions to memory, and yet, I did.

Sometimes he would stumble in from the london rain, damp and uncomfortable. Sometimes he would walk through the door with something indescribably heavy in his tread, returning with a need even he couldn’t place after visiting my grave. Sometimes he wouldn’t come for three, four, five weeks. And that was okay.

At first I thought he would want to bury all memory of the place and our collective clutter that inhabited every spare centimetre, to spend as little time as possible within the walls that held so many memories. But, in the early weeks, when Mrs Hudson was trying desperately to send some of the less worn possessions to charity shops and anonymous nieces and old people’s homes, she mentioned my violin. John practically tore it out of her hands, walked calmly over to the music stand and placed the delicate instrument carefully within the safety of its case - like one might handle a baby - before rounding on her, yelling again and again that she had no right. I am grateful for this.

John touches nothing. Even my laptop - which is a significantly better model than his - he did not open, as if preserving my touch on its keys. Dust collected on every surface and he refused to clean away even traces of my potential skin cells that sullied everything. My mug, his mug. He would always make two teas, but only ever drink one. I think, for the first few instances, he boiled the kettle for two accidentally, but as time wore on he never once forgot the second one. I remember once, trying to find the rational part of his brain that reasoned such a wasteful habit, but I have never understood until now, standing in the exact same spot he did as he waited for his, our water to be ready.

In all that time, John never once even opened my bedroom door; whether he felt it would be an invasion of some fanciful privacy, or whether it would dredge up far too many painful could-have-beens, I’m still not certain. The experiments, of course, were disposed of almost immediately, but aside from that aspect, the flat remained as if frozen in a pocket of blissful domesticity, unchanged in the midst of everything. It still is, really. One would expect, inexplicably, for an inanimate environment such as our home to become tainted and greyed after having seen so, so much loss, but for some reason it was the most resistant variable. We both clung to that, I think.

And then there were the monologues. He might turn to my chair or the ruined wallpaper or the skull and just talk. I know, at this time, he was still visiting his therapist but after a while I found no need to hack her personal database because nothing was ever accomplished. The questions she asked, however, were often answered privately to the secretive walls of 221B.

“How do you feel this week, John?”

“Why don’t you update your blog anymore?”

“There were things you never said to him. Say them now.”

His replies were never predictable. I should have seen, then. I should have noticed but I was naive and I never thought to examine him more closely. I thought only of my hypothetical, perfect future.

“Colourless. Empty. You left me and I can’t find any sort of excuse to do things anymore, and I don’t know how to be the person I was with you.”

“Because I have nothing to say.”

“You would lie, you would break the law, you would be rude to everyone I ever brought home and sometimes I hated you for it, but I guess what everyone says is true. You really don’t appreciate what you have until it’s gone. At the time I was never bored, yes, but I thought you were inhuman, immensely strong. I realise now that you were, in fact, very, very weak. I realise now that all those complaints and adventures and all that rudeness was you showing endearment towards me, telling me - in your own way - that somehow I was different and you cared. I don’t think I ever reciprocated and I hate myself for that. I don’t think even you, the genius, had any idea what _you_ meant to _me._ And I- Well I suppose that now I can say it- All I think you should ever know is that I-. This is ridiculous.”

He never went anywhere close to those words again, and I understand. But yes, I do too, John. I do too.

Whilst watching the monitors in the dim light of one of Mycroft’s forgotten bedrooms, I would sometimes create perfect and fantastical situations in my head, diverging away from real conversations we had so I could fill in the blanks, or inventing entirely new ones altogether, confessions we would proclaim loudly in our living room or whisper quietly into intimate darkness. It wouldn’t matter, with us. He would say:

“Please don’t leave me here alone.”

or

“I need you.”

or

“I love you.”

If things had been perfect, I would maybe be hurt after a case that would have ended more violently than we would have expected. John would check me for any hidden injuries or trauma and I would turn to him and say that they were all superficial. “Is everything ‘superficial’ to you if it doesn’t involve death?” he would ask, and I would say, “Yes.” before letting him pull me over and tenderly soothe every scrape and abrasion of skin with his lips.

If things had been perfect, I could wish this all away into mere subconsciousness; when I would wake he would be a comforting warmth beside me, and I could whisper into the tender skin on the side of his neck how truly horrible things could have been to us, had we made different mistakes. Then I could happily forget.

As it turns out, it was mere coincidence in the end, but I somehow still blame myself. I should have noticed the signs. I should have been in the country. I should have been mere miles away. Metres. Inches. I should have made that horrid phonecall seconds earlier so someone, anyone could have prevented it. But that is not how life works.

He didn’t even leave a note. Perhaps that was better.

If things had been perfect, I would not be standing here in an empty flat, boughing under the weight of years of our dust, sipping and warming my hands on one mug of tea while I watch the other slowly cool. If things had been perfect, I could turn around right now, right this instant, and hand him his drink, wipe away all traces of his fingertips because I would have him, real, before me, and we could laugh about how utterly foolish I had once been.

My own tea is cold now so I wash both down the sink, watching the hypnotic swirl of the liquid descend into the drain and mingle so that the barrier between my tea and his is indefinable. We seem destined, in a way, to forever be making pointless drinks and standing here amongst the calm, dependable wreckage. It’s predictable, this cycle. Inevitable, one could even argue. I put down the empty porcelain.

There’s no one to leave a note for now, anyway.


End file.
